The Rules of Love & Grammar

by Mary Simses

  “You okay?” he asks as he pedals alongside me. He’s not even winded.

  Huff, puff. “Can I get off ”—huff, puff—“and walk it up?”

  “No, you cannot get off and walk it up. What kind of trainer would I be if I let you do that?”

  Huff, puff. “A nice one?”

  “Sorry. Keep going. You can do this, Grace.”

  “You’re a sadist,” I tell him, panting.

  “Only on Wednesdays. You’re good for this. I know you are. You’re not going to let a little hill get in your way.”

  A big mountain is more like it. All I can see ahead of me is hill, hill, hill. My legs are on fire, but I keep pedaling.

  Mitch pedals on ahead a little and circles back again. “Do you know where we are?”

  Huff, puff. “No idea.”

  “Then it’ll be a nice surprise when we reach our destination, because it’s really pretty.”

  The surprise for me will be getting there at all. When Mitch finally says, “Almost there,” I manage to pull out my last ounce of energy and make it to the top.

  “Oh my God!” I straddle the bike and lean over the handlebars, trying to catch my breath. In the distance, through the trees, I can see the blue of Long Island Sound. I pull out my water bottle and take a long drink. Mitch does the same.

  “Come on. You can coast the rest of the way there,” he says.

  “Where is there? Where are we going?”

  “You’ll see.”

  I let out a loud sigh, half fatigue and half frustration, and then we fly down the other side of the hill, the tires zipping along the pavement in front of me, trees whizzing by, my hands on the brakes, gently controlling my descent. I tilt back my head and let the breeze cool my neck, wet with perspiration. At the bottom, Mitch turns onto a dirt road marked by a sign: Bratton Point Lighthouse.

  “I’ve never been out here,” I say, pulling up next to him.

  He looks at me as though I’ve told him I’ve never eaten a potato. “How could you never have been to the lighthouse?”

  “I don’t know. I just haven’t.”

  We ride to the end of the road, where a long, grassy stretch of land juts into the water. An old two-story house stands in the middle of the land, its pristine, white walls blinding against the cobalt sky, its red roof like a brilliant smile. Attached to the right side of the house, and only slightly higher, is a white lighthouse. A driveway leads to the house, and a white picket fence runs around the buildings and part of the lawn.

  We leave our bikes in the driveway and walk across the grass, past the house and lighthouse, to where the lawn recedes and turns to boulders and rocks and the water takes over. The sound stretches around us, a small chop licking up a bit of froth.

  “You’re right. It is beautiful here.” I can taste the salt in the breeze as it caresses my face.

  “Was it worth the ride over the hill?”

  “Every last breath,” I say. Then I realize I’ll have to do the whole thing again. “But I’m not looking forward to the trip back.”

  “Oh, we don’t have to go the same way,” Mitch says. “We can avoid the hill.”

  “What? Then why didn’t we avoid it coming here?”

  He smiles. “You needed to know you could do it.”

  “So you’ve really never been here,” Mitch says as we sit down on a flat rock by the water, the lighthouse to our left.

  “No. Maybe I’m just spoiled, growing up on the water and all. It’s always been right there, in my backyard.”

  “You must be a good swimmer then.”

  “I’m okay. My sister was the real swimmer. She was on a team when she was a kid. She did a lot of team things, a lot of athletics.” I laugh. “She tried to coach me in some of the sports we did in school, but it didn’t help—I was hopeless.”

  A seagull glides over the water, its wings spread to catch the air current. “You must miss her,” Mitch says. “It sounds like you were really close.”

  I reach down and pick up a handful of the broken shells that lie scattered among the rocks. “Yeah, I do miss her,” I say, studying the shards. We sit in silence, and I listen to the water lap against the rocks. “The thing is,” I finally say, “it never should have happened. She shouldn’t have been driving. Not when she was upset.” I gaze at the water, so dark now, it’s almost black. “And not when she’d been drinking.”

  “What happened?” Mitch asks, his voice quiet.

  It seems like such a simple question, but the answer is complicated. “It started with a guy,” I say. “Elliot Frasier.” I wipe my hands, and the shards of shell fall onto the rocks. “They dated all senior year, and then he broke up with her.” I glance at Mitch. “But that was only part of it. The other part was that Peter and I were kind of getting together. We’d been friends, but it was becoming more than that. And Renny didn’t want to hear about it.”

  “Because of her own situation.”

  “Yes. She was angry with Elliot and jealous of me. And she’d been drinking. It was a very bad combination. The worst.”

  A spray of salt dampens my hair; a breeze blows through the sedges. “I should have left her alone. You know…gotten out of her room and stayed out of her way. We got into a fight and said some pretty nasty things. The kind of things siblings say, I guess. But they usually get the chance to apologize.”

  Mitch looks at me. “I’m sorry, Grace.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “So am I.”

  “Are we trespassing?” I ask as we walk across the grass and stop at the picket fence in front of the lighthouse. “Does somebody live here?”

  “Not anymore,” Mitch says. “The light’s been automated.”

  “Oh, right.” I gaze at the lantern room, at the top of the lighthouse, and think about the lives it must have saved over the years, warning boats away from the shoals.

  “People used to live here, though,” Mitch says as we walk around the perimeter of the fence. “There were lighthouse keepers here starting in 1827, when the owner of the land sold it to the federal government. The government built the original lighthouse and a little residence and hired the former owner as the first keeper.”

  “Lighthouse keeper. That’s a job you don’t see advertised anymore.”

  Mitch smiles. “No, you don’t. There were probably eight or ten of them here over the years, including a woman who took over the job from her husband after he died.”

  “A woman lighthouse keeper,” I say as we continue to walk alongside the fence. “She must have been ahead of her time.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And when did the last keeper leave?”

  “I think it was around 1987,” Mitch says. “That’s when the Coast Guard automated the light.” He points to the lantern room. “But it still has the original Fresnel lens.”

  I look at the lighthouse and the attached residence, with its clean white walls, fresh, gray trim, and bright-red roof, and I wonder what it would have been like to live here. “It’s such a pretty place,” I say. “What a view they must have had.”

  “Yeah. Incredible view,” Mitch says as his gaze goes from the lighthouse to the water.

  “There’s something so romantic about it, the idea of living by a lighthouse.”

  “I’ve always thought so, too,” he says. He turns to me and smiles, and all of a sudden he leans in. He looks into my eyes, and I think he’s going to kiss me. And I realize I want him to kiss me. I close my eyes, and, as I’m waiting for it to happen, someone calls out.

  “Excuse me, are these your bikes?”

  I open my eyes. A short, sturdy-looking man stands in the driveway by a green pickup truck. The name Anderson’s Lawn & Landscaping is on the door. Three other men step out of the truck.

  “Yes,” Mitch says. “They’re ours.”

  “You’ll need to move them,” the short man says. “I’ve got to pull this truck in here.”

  Mitch looks at me. “Guess we’d better go.”

  “Righ
t,” I say, but as we walk to the bikes, I’m scrambling to figure out what just happened, trying to wrap my head around it. Was he going to kiss me? I don’t think I imagined that. Was I going to let him? I was. I know I didn’t imagine that.

  I ride in front on the return trip. It’s almost five o’clock, and we’re cycling down Elm Street, along the back of the village green, when I see Peter leaving Ernie’s with a take-out bag in his hand. He’s wearing a pair of jeans that fit him perfectly and a charcoal-gray T-shirt, and I just want to kill him for the way he stood me up yesterday.

  For a second, all I can see are Peter and Regan, and they’re at the Academy Awards again, the two of them seated together, her hand linked in his. But this time it’s Regan’s name that’s called. She gives Peter a kiss and sashays her way up the steps to the stage to collect her Oscar statuette. Best Actress in a Supporting Role.

  No! I pedal faster, until I’m almost alongside Peter’s parked Audi. As he’s about to open the door, I give the handbrakes a hard squeeze, and the bike skids to a stop beside him.

  He does a double take. “Grace? Oh my God. Look at you. What are you doing on that bike?” He’s all friendly, as if nothing’s happened.

  “I’m riding it,” I say, pretending nothing’s happened as well. “I’m training for the Dorset Challenge.”

  “What’s the Dorset Challenge?”

  “You haven’t heard of it? It’s a very demanding bike ride being held on the Fourth of July.”

  Mitch pulls up beside me, and before he can say anything, I grab on to his arm. “And speaking of training, here’s my trainer.” I smile. “Peter Brooks, this is Mitch Dees. Mitch, Peter Brooks.”

  The two men eye each other. “You’re the movie director,” Mitch says as they exchange a perfunctory handshake.

  “Guilty as charged,” Peter says. “And I guess you’re the trainer.”

  “Ah, I’m not really a trainer. Although I am training Grace. I make an exception for her.” He glances at me. “She’s special.”

  I feel myself start to blush.

  “That’s nice of you,” Peter says, but there’s a slight edge to his tone. Now he’s the one looking at me. “Yes, Grace is special.”

  “We had quite a ride,” I say. “Mitch took me to the Bratton Point Lighthouse. He knew all about its history, the lighthouse keepers, the lens. It was fascinating.”

  “Oh, really?” Peter says.

  “I’m a history buff,” Mitch says. “I teach it at Thatcher.”

  “And he helps his dad at the Bike Peddler in the summer,” I add. “He cycles a lot. That’s why he’s in such great shape.”

  “I have a bike,” Peter says, a little defensively.

  “I’m sure it’s very nice,” I say as I check my watch. “Well, we’d better be going.” I slide back onto my seat. Then I smile. “Oh, sorry I didn’t catch you yesterday.”

  Peter gives me a quizzical look. “What do you mean? What was yesterday?”

  I keep the smile on my face, although it’s a strain. “You told me to come visit you at the set. So I did. I was right outside the Sugar Bowl.”

  Mitch pulls out his water bottle, leans against Peter’s car, and takes a leisurely drink.

  “You were there?” Peter asks. “Yesterday?”

  “Yes. But your production assistant wouldn’t let me in. He said my name wasn’t on the list.”

  Peter’s eyebrows draw together. “You’re kidding me. I told Rob Nagle to put you on the list.”

  “Well, I guess Rob Nagle, whoever he is, didn’t do it. Although he must have put Regan Moxley’s name on there. She walked right in.”

  “But I—”

  “By the way,” Mitch says, “there was a nice photo of you and Regan in the paper. Did you see that?”

  Peter glares at him. Then he puts his arm around me and pulls me close. His T-shirt feels soft, and it has that Peter smell I’ve always loved. “Grace, I’m sorry. I had no idea. I thought it was all set up. Why would I invite you and then not arrange for you to be let in?” He shakes his head. “I’ll have Rob’s ass in a sling. I’ll have him fired. How about that?” He grins, and his eyes sparkle.

  I feel myself begin to thaw. It was just a mistake. Why did I jump to conclusions? I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation about Regan as well. “I guess firing him would be a good start.”

  Peter laughs and gives me a squeeze. “Okay, you’ve got it.”

  “Grace,” Mitch says, looking a little impatient, “I think we’d better be getting back.”

  “Just one more thing,” Peter says, pulling his arm a little tighter around my waist. “I was going to call you, but now I can ask you in person. I’m going to be one of the judges at the apple pie contest at Founder’s Day this Saturday, and I was wondering if you’d go with me.”

  “You’re going to be a judge?” I say. “I’m impressed.”

  “It’s not that big a deal,” Mitch says as he inspects his front brake. “I’ve done it before.”

  “Well, I know about eating apple pies,” Peter tells me. “But I don’t know anything about judging them.”

  “You’ll be fine,” I say. “I don’t think they’ll ask for your judging credentials.”

  “No, they won’t,” Mitch says. “I told you, I’ve done it.”

  Peter gives him an exasperated look and then returns his attention to me. “So, do you want to go? I can pick you up at noon.”

  Founder’s Day with Peter. I’m jumping for joy inside. “I’ll meet you there,” I say. Did Mitch’s shoulders just slump a little? “I’m going in the morning with Cluny and Greg and their girls.”

  “Then I’ll call you when I get there,” Peter says. He leans over and whispers, “I hope all is forgiven.”

  “Yes,” I whisper back. “All is forgiven.”

  Chapter 15

  A participle is a word formed from a verb and used as an adjective.

  In sporting events, competing teams are not always evenly matched.

  Cluny, it’s not that good. Please put it back.” She’s holding my college screenplay, having plucked it from the Chippendale chest in the hall.

  “No, I want to read it. Let me be the judge of how good or bad it is.”

  “But I never finished it.” I try to grab the script from her, but she dodges me and slips out of the house with it.

  “This would be like me paging through some sketchbook you had when you were in college,” I say as we walk toward Greg’s Tahoe.

  “I wouldn’t mind if you looked at my old sketchbooks. They’re still me. My work was a lot simpler back then, at least in some ways, but I’m not ashamed of it. And you shouldn’t be ashamed of yours, either.”

  “I’m not ashamed. I just…” I don’t finish the thought because I’m not sure what the thought is. Am I ashamed of it? Or am I ashamed that I’m not doing something better with myself, and the screenplay is a reminder of that? Maybe it’s a little bit of both. Oh God. Could my father be right? Do I have more talent than I’m giving myself credit for? Am I afraid to try something more challenging? To take a chance?

  Cluny’s six-year-old daughter, Morgan, grabs my hand as we stroll down Main Street toward the middle of town, where the Founder’s Day celebration is taking place. “Aunt Grace, my friend Lilly says they’ve got funnel cake.”

  “Really. Then we’ll have to get some, won’t we?”

  Cluny sighs. “You’re corrupting her.”

  “No, I think it’s this Lilly who’s corrupting her. And, anyway, they can’t eat carrot sticks all the time.”

  “What’s funnel cake?” asks Elizabeth, who is four.

  “What’s corrupting?” Morgan asks.

  “We’ll explain later,” Greg tells them.

  Up ahead, a blue and white banner hangs over the road. Happy 375th Birthday Dorset! It’s just crying out for a comma. Happy Three Hundred Seventy-fifth Birthday. Pause. Dorset. If only I had a Sharpie that big.

  The girls skip ahead to catch up with t
heir father. Cluny turns to me. “So, tell me what’s really going on.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “With Mitch. Miller’s Orchards on Tuesday, the lighthouse on Wednesday. What’s happening with you two?”

  “Nothing. I told you, we delivered a bike, and he bought a pie.”

  “And you took a romantic walk in the orchard.”

  “No, we didn’t. It was just a walk.”

  “Okay, but the next day you rode bikes to the lighthouse.”

  “He’s training me for the Dorset Challenge. He wanted to take me up this monster hill.”

  “If he made a pass, it sounds as if he’s training you for more than the Dorset Challenge.”

  “Cluny, stop. Honestly. I don’t even think he was making a pass. I think I kind of imagined it. And, anyway, everything’s great now with Peter. I was so relieved when he told me the whole deal with the movie shoot was just a mistake.”

  “So you didn’t have any other outings with Mitch.”

  “No, that was it. He wasn’t even in the shop the past two days. He went to a bike race, and I’ve just been working. You should see the cool storage bins and crates I got at Sage Hardware.”

  “Greg,” Cluny calls out. “Elizabeth’s sneaker is untied. Can you get that, please?” She gives me an incredulous look. “Most women lust after clothes and jewelry. You’re ecstatic about storage bins.”

  “Oh, I still love clothes and jewelry.”

  “Thank God. I was worried.” She laughs. Then her expression becomes serious. “So, you’re really going to ride in that bike outing?”

  “I don’t know. There’s a route that’s twenty-five miles. It’s a lot better than fifty, but it still seems like a long way.” We walk in silence for a bit. Then I stop. “Hey, would you ride in it with me? Please? It could be a lot of fun.”

  “Oh, Grace, I can’t. I run and do my yoga, but I’m not in bicycling shape.”